


From Within

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts Second Year, Minor Character Death, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filch and Mrs. Norris are dead, Colin is dying, and Hermione's time has almost come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Within

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a Sherlock fic whose title I can't remember, which was based on a book whose title I also can't remember. The premise was that John's magical power was giving people little things they suddenly needed, like a new pair of tights after a pair rips. Or something. I wish I could remember it; it was very cool. 
> 
> POV is very screwy in this one. I don't even know what to say about it; usually I write third limited, but Harry and Ron are playing POV ball here.

Dumbledore rose from the head table, standing tall in the Great Hall as the students within it grew silent. Harry didn't look up, his head buried in a book, his friend Ron beside him in a mirror image. Ron, at least, was eating with one hand while the other held up a book, but food had tasted like ash to Harry ever since Dumbledore had placed a hand on each of their shoulders and told them the bad news he was about to tell the entire school.

And now, despite the fact that he thought of the headmaster as the grandfather he never had, Harry quietly burned with anger. Dumbledore was so powerful. He just wasn't powerful enough. And neither was Harry.

Dumbledore began, the somber expression on his face promising no good news, "And as your headmaster, it is my duty to care for you when your parents cannot, and to see to the well-being of my staff." He paused, looking out at them, and Harry couldn't meet his eyes. Both their eyes blazed with sadness, with the terrible truth that they wished they could both deny. "I have failed in this. You've spent the past year living in fear of the monster in our halls. This monster has been killed, due to the great courage of three students, and I had hoped that that would be the end of it."

The quill between Harry's fingers snapped, drops of ink splattering the table, books, and food nearby. A droplet fell onto Ron's plate and slid into his potatoes, staining them in black.

"But now, I must tell you that the castle caretaker, Argus Filch, and his cat Mrs. Norris, have died. Their funeral will be held this Friday. We professors have joined with researchers and mediwizards at St. Mungo's, but the stare of the basilisk... it will bring the death of all of those who have been petrified. If you wish to visit..."

As there hall broke out in whispers and noise and grief in those who hadn't been alerted earlier, Harry and Ron quietly exited the hall, unable to hear another world. By unspoken accord, they made their way to Hermione's bedside. It was littered with more books that had ever been by her side when she was alive, though Harry was sure she would've been a better researcher than them. Hermione would know what to do, he thought, the corners of his eyes prickling with tears. She'd always been the smart one.

"What're we going to do?" Ron asked, dropping into his well-worn seat next to the bed. "If Filch is already dead, it could be _days_." Colin had been attacked months after Filch, but his body was already beginning to crumble; it was only a matter of time before Hermione succumbed.

Harry glanced at him. His friend looked almost as lifeless as Hermione, his face pale and thin. They'd been searching through every book they could get their hands on, but it just wasn't enough. The mandrake drought that Madam Pomfrey had fed the patients had made them even worse; Professor McGonagall had spoken against Dumbledore even in front of the students, steel in her voice as she'd told him they should have never trusted a thousand year recipe. Because no one had managed to form a basilisk since; and no one had become petrified from one's gaze until Voldemort's diary let one loose inside Hogwarts.

It was just like every problem they'd ever had at Hogwarts; the professors just couldn't help. And it wasn't _fair_. It wasn't fair that Harry had to do everything himself; that someone as great as Hermione could be reduced to stone and dust; that they'd been walking with fear pinching at their skin for months and it just wouldn't end. He could press his hands into fists until his nails broke skin, could look through every book in the library, could even ask for help—and it wouldn't be enough.

"I think I'm going to do it," Harry said, staring at Hermione's motionless form and swallowing tightly. It hurt a little, and he wondered how long it had been since he'd drank anything. Ron had forced some juice into him that morning, but Harry had been able to avoid it later.

Ron didn't argue. They didn't have time, not if Filch was already dead; they had no idea how quickly their best friend's stone body would crumble. Instead, he said, "I'll do it, too."

Harry shook his head. "You can't— Ron, think of your mum. Not after Ginny. We don't know what will happen."

"Mum will be fine. She'll get it. It's for Hermione."

Harry's thoughts raced from denial to denial, and it took him longer than it should've to remember, "I'll need a binder. You can't do both roles. And I'm going first."

"I could—"

"It has to be me. Like it should've been me to realize sooner what to do."

"It's not your fault," Ron said, but it was futile. They'd had this conversation enough times to blame themselves for a sea of things they couldn't rationally shoulder. The stubborn expression on Harry's face refused to leave, and it was enough for Ron to give in. "But if it goes wrong—"

"It won't." _It can't._

"Okay," Ron said, and hesitantly placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. It was something he'd seen his dad do, something Bill had done when Ron had lost yet another broomstick race, a gesture passed down from one male Weasley to another. But he didn't have the words to go along with the comforting gesture. None of them were very good at; not with Ron's emotional awkwardness and Harry's growing up alone and Hermione's straightforwardness. "I'm with you," he finally said, and hoped for the best.

"I know," Harry said, his lip quirking into something that could've been the beginning of a smile, in a better time. "I haven't been able to get rid of you this whole month."

Ron huffed. "It's your own fault. Merlin, you _passed out_. What was I supposed to do? I can't lose both of my best friends. I can't."

"You're not going to."

"And if you don't come back, afterward? What am I supposed to do then?"

"You'll have Hermione.

"Against magic itself?"

Harry shrugged. There wasn't much he could say against that. Instead, he pulled an old, leather-bound book from the bottom of a pile of books, and handed it to Ron. There was already a bookmark at the correct section; it wasn't a lack of preparation that caused them to hesitate when they'd found a possible solution to Hermione's petrification. Harry had read it cover to cover, and had handed it over to Ron, who did the same.

It wasn't a good book, that much Harry was certain of. It had been on the shelf that Hermione had found _Moste Potente Potions_ , sandwiched between a book of bodily horrors and a history of demonic summoning attempts. Unlike its demon-summoning counterpart, _Magick Moste Divine_ told stories of humans making deals with magic itself. In exchange for magic's aid in one matter, they bound themselves as servants of magic, becoming its vessels on the mortal plane.

Frightening didn't encompass the burning emotions inside Harry when he thought of something being able to use his body whenever it liked. It reminded him of Quirrell, slave to Voldemort on the back of his head, unable to do anything without his master approving. Or worse, Dobby, who had been magically bound to do everything Mr. Malfoy commanded. For the first half of the book, Harry had likened it to being with the Dursleys. But the latter half, written by a woman who'd successfully completed the ritual in the twelfth century, made it seem like a gift. Her joy at being able to know and do thinks she never had before felt a little like Harry's wonder after doing magic for the first time. Her argument that magic was a force of balance in the world reminded him of his parents, who'd joined the Aurors and fought against Voldemort for a chance at a peaceful world. Her mention of her husband and children made him think that maybe, he wouldn't always be needed by magic.

He was Hermione's friend, and so he knew the pitfalls and biases of narration. He knew that the truth was somewhere in the middle, somewhere inside history and people's reimaginings of it. But he didn't have time to scour the planet for more accounts of magic's vessels; he was lucky to have found as much as he had, lucky to have noticed the ritual instructions buried inside the cover.

Ron didn't ask if he was sure, simply standing up from his chair and holding the book in front of himself. Harry took a step back and fell onto his knees, lightheaded from stress and relief. Whatever this ritual would do to him, he knew it would at least heal Hermione. Ron winced at the thump of Harry's knees on the hard floors, but said after a deep breath, "Do you agree to bind yourself to the might of magic?"

It wasn't the words that mattered, not truly. Nor was it the ritual, which they had modified from an unbreakable vow. It was the knowledge and utter acceptance in Harry's mind as he said, "I do," that caused a light to emanate from underneath his skin.

"Do you offer your body as its vessel?" Ron's voice didn't waver.

Neither did Harry's. "I do."

"Do you require for Hermione to be healed in exchange?"

"I do."

Ron had been half-hoping that he and Harry would be just one of the many to try and fail the ritual. They were too young, much younger than any of the vessels and binders that they'd read about. But from the way Harry's head slumped, it looked like their effort had been taken as sincere. Or maybe, magic had been in desperate need of a vessel. Carefully, Ron placed the book down on the bed and sat down.

He felt like his heart was grasped in the mouth of one of Hagrid's beast, its teeth a sharp, hard pressure its scared thumps. He was afraid to even breathe, in case it somehow made things worse. The book had said that this state could last for hours. They didn't have that long; Madam Pomfrey would no doubt return soon.

Time felt unreal to him as he watched his unmoving friends, until finally Harry's chin rose.

It wasn't Harry who opened his eyes, for all that it had his form. Green had faded from Harry's eyes, leaving only molten gold, the same shade as the sparks that had flown from Ron's wand when he'd first held it.

"Harry?"

"It's me, Ron," the body said, his eyes unfocused, seeing too far to be seeing Ron. His voice was all wrong, but Ron had to believe him. "It's— different than I thought it would be." Frustration coloring his even tone, Harry added, "I can't— It's too much. I see too much. I can't remember how to _move_."

Ron swallowed. "Okay. I can help." Even touching Harry felt wrong. The glow had faded from his skin, and his golden eyes had become flecked with green once again, but touching him caused a deep feeling of wrongness to reverberate through Ron. He did it anyway, of course. It was easy enough to wrap one of Harry's unresisting arms around his shoulders, but harder to pull him up.

Once they were both upright, with Ron supporting most of Harry's weight, he asked, "Where to?"

"The Potions classroom," Harry said decisively. "It has everything I need."

"Of course it does," Ron replied, thinking about how exactly they were going to get inside a locked classroom. It was after hours, and dinner was probably over by now; Snape was no doubt roaming the dungeons like a vampire. But they could break that wand when they found it, Ron decided. "Can you walk now?"

"Yes," Harry grumbled. "I've been walking for years. I can't just forget."

Slowly, Ron began making his way to the door, dragging Harry like a sack of potatoes at his side. It made him feel a lot better to think of Harry's sudden weakness as funny instead of alarming, so he tried not to linger on Harry's shaking legs as his friend tried to move them. They made their way outside the infirmary and deeper into the castle without too much of a hassle; most students had retired to their dormitories, while the rest shot pitying glances to the best friends of a soon-to-be dead girl. Ron grit his teeth; Harry barely noticed.

When they got within range, the door to the Potions classroom slid open with a loud creak. Ron looked both ways, but there was no one there but him and Harry.

"It's just me," Harry explained. He pushed himself off of Ron and hobbled over to a workstation.

Ron stayed close in case of a sudden fall, but it looked like Harry had remembered how to walk. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing. As Snape's storage cupboards opened with a gust of wind and a cauldron and various ingredients flew into Harry's hands, Ron slumped onto a stool and watched. "Do you need any help?"

"No," Harry replied, beginning to chop with a skill Ron knew he didn't have. "I need to focus, or I'll lose track of things again."

Ron sighed. He was pretty sure Harry had lost track of a lot of things already. Like the ability to explain himself.

Minutes later, the classroom door slammed open once again, this time revealing an enraged Snape. "You dare sneak inside my rooms again?" he seethed.

Swallowing, Ron glanced toward Harry, whose attention was on the cauldron. Right. He wasn't getting any help from him. "Uh, I can explain," he said.

"You may explain to your parents how you've gotten expelled from the school. A hundred points from Gryffindor, _each_ —"

His words were interrupted by a mumble from Harry.

"What did you say?" Snape stalked over, his boots clicking menacingly on the stone floors.

"Harry's not feeling well—"

"My mother forgave you, before her death," Harry repeated, staring down into the cauldron. He was missing an ingredient; he waved elfroot over from the cupboard, letting an entire branch fall simply inside. It would dissolve as soon as it hit the surface, anyway.

"Excuse me?"

Absently, because he could barely spare a thought for the world outside the potion, Harry added, "She forgave you afterwards, too." He caught Snape's expression as he pulled out more iodine from a drawer; Snape had been shocked into silence for the first time in the two years Harry had known him. A part of him whispered _good_ , another was trying to figure out what he'd said, another hissed shut up.

It sounded like Hermione.

"Weasley. Explain."

"Right, so we..."

Harry was sure that they had continued talking, but he couldn't hear them over the bustle of his mind. There was something he had to do, but he... He closed his eyes and let his hands do the work, uncaring of who or what was controlling them. This was for Hermione. While he worked, he thought of his best friend's smile, her studiousness, her loyalty. He thought of her birthday gift and the way she lied for them and how much he couldn't lose a friend, not when he had so little. He didn't think of the price or of the worry that flittered through his head, because if this was what it took to save her, so be it.

"So mote it be," he hoarsely whispered into the fumes, and opened his eyes to see a pot full of a light blue potion. He looked around, but only Ron was still in the room, his head resting on a nearby desk. It looked like Snape had left. Harry wondered if the man had taken points from Gryffindor.

"Oh, Merlin, I ignored _Snape_ ," he realized, and dropped his face into his hands. He tried to rub the tired feeling out of his eyes.

When he looked up again, Ron was beginning to speak through a yawn, "Don't worry, he's only given you a month of detention."

"Only a month?"

"I managed to talk him down from three years. It helped that you looked like an inferi."

Harry winced. He curled and uncurled his fingers and toes. "I think I'm myself now."

"Your eyes are back to normal," Ron agreed.

Harry wasn't exactly sure what he meant, but it didn't matter. "I need to get to the infirmary. I can help Hermione." He jumped off of his stool, wincing at the stiffness of his legs. "How long has it been, since..."

"Almost five hours since the ritual," Ron said, and helped him pour the brew into five vials. One for each of the living basilisk victims who would soon be cured.

Soon, they made their way to the hospital wing. Hermione was like a beacon in Harry's mental map of the school. The yet-unfilled promise between him, her, and magic itself pushed him there, needing to settle their agreement. To heal her. Hours ago, Harry would've been worried about what would happen afterwards, but the knowledge slipping in and out of his head gave him peace. Magic didn't need him, not really. It wouldn't take his body permanently. There were just some things it wanted done, but they were things Harry was already on the road to doing (killing Voldemort, because with as many times as he'd been attacked by him, Harry was sure it was unavoidable) or didn't mind doing (helping cure an epidemic going through the worldwide dragon community).

In exchange, Hermione would be safe, and a wealth of knowledge had opened up inside Harry's mind. He knew the number of unicorns in the Forbidden Forest; he knew the number of potatoes Ron had eaten at dinner; he knew a number of spells he shouldn't have heard of. And yet, there were so many more things he didn't know. He didn't know the future. He didn't know people's innermost secrets; with his bargain almost settled, the instinctive grasp of Snape's past had left him, as did the knowledge of his mother in the afterlife.

"Do you think Snape told Dumbledore?" Harry asked as they neared the infirmary.

"Almost definitely."

Harry scowled. He scowled harder when they reached their intended hallway and found Snape and Dumbledore arguing with hushed voices right outside the entrance, blocking them from slipping inside unnoticed. Knowing Dumbledore would want to speak with him (and not needing any sort of magic to realize it), Harry handed the vials he carried to Ron.

Within a few steps, the two professors looked up from their argument.

"You're just in time," Dumbledore said. "Mr. Weasley, if you would kindly answer Professor Snape's questions about the antidote? And Mr. Potter, a word."

There was nothing Harry could do but follow Dumbledore through the school until they reached the headmaster's office. It had only been weeks since Harry had been there, after killing the basilisk and saving Ginny. Now, Harry trudged up the stairs, feeling vaguely guilty. He was pretty sure it was a kind of reaction everyone had when they were led into Dumbledore's office.

After settling into a soft, cushioned chair—so different from the stool he'd sat on for hours—Harry blurted out, "It's not as bad as it sounds. Or Snape says."

It said a lot about the situation that Dumbledore's next words weren't a correction of his manners, but, "Tell me, then, my boy. Why did you keep it secret? You could have asked myself or Professor McGonagall for aid. We would have shouldered this burden instead, or found another way."

Harry shrugged, unable to meet Dumbledore's eyes. "Hermione was _dying_. No one was doing anything."

"We were doing the best we could," Dumbledore said.

"And it wasn't enough. Filch was already dead! I—" _I was scared,_ he thought, but he'd never said something like that to an adult. But Dumbledore's eyes were gentle over his half-moon glasses, and so Harry thought he probably understood. Still, "I bargained for Hermione's life, not anyone else's," Harry said. "And I still made more enough to cure everyone. I think it's good, whatever magic really is. I think it just wants to help. And I'm okay, professor. I'm okay with that."

But when Dumbledore pulled him into a hug, Harry still shook, because there was okay and there was okay, and the fact that a foreign thing was going to control him occasionally—despite the positive parts of the bargain—was only one kind of okay. The one that said you really, really weren't. "My dear boy," Dumbledore murmured.

"It was my choice," Harry told him.

"You're too young to make these choices. You're not... There are things you must know, Harry. I don't believe I can protect you from them anymore."

It was then that Harry learned the truth about the Potters, Voldemort, and Snape. Within the perspective of the prophesy, Voldemort's frequent attacks made a lot more sense; fate was going to pit them against one another, even if magic didn't.

"You mustn't blame Professor Snape," Dumbledore finished. "He's changed much since his days as a loyal Death Eater."

"I don't. Mum forgave him, I think," he said, thinking of the words he'd instinctively spoken. He hadn't known where they'd come from, but he knew in his heart they were true.

"Your mother was an amazing woman," Dumbledore agreed.

Harry had to smile. His mother was probably a better person than himself, Harry thought, because despite vaguely remembering Snape's bad lot in life, he still thought he was a bastard. This revelation didn't help matters. But there were larger things to deal with; angry professors didn't factor much into Harry's new worldview.

"Do you think this is the power the Dark Lord knows not?" Harry asked. Because of all the things Voldemort could have expected of his prophesized rival, binding with magic itself wasn't one of them.

"I believe if there's one thing Voldemort knows not, it is how far you are willing to go for your friends," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "And I believe there is someone who would like to see you, now that she is finally awake."

It wasn't exactly an answer, but Harry didn't care. He knew Hermione was awake; her life force was now as strong as that of all the other castle inhabitants. "Thank you, professor."

"Of course. And, Harry... My door is always open. Even when you think it might not be."

Harry nodded. Maybe next time, he'd take Dumbledore up on his offer. But even as the thought flew through his head, he knew that Dumbledore couldn't always be available. He'd be called into the ministry, or be suspiciously absent, or misjudge Harry's concerns. And Harry wasn't very good about asking for help from adults, anyway. With a word of goodbye, Harry skipped every other step down to the exit of the headmaster's tower, hoping that this would be his last visit, at least for his second year.

An irrational nervousness entered him as he approached the hospital wing. Despite every magical sense telling him otherwise, he wondered if Hermione was truly better. Because if he'd irrevocably bound himself to a higher power just to learn that there was no way to help his friend, then he was pretty sure he could overthrow Snape as the one with the worst lot in life.

But when Harry opened the infirmary doors, Hermione was sitting up in her cot, and color had finally returned to her face. She was chatting with Ron, probably berating him about something, and Harry smiled widely as he walked closer and said, "Hi, Hermione."

Hermione returned it, exclaiming, "Harry!" and wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Harry pretended not to notice her rapidly blinking eyes. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like I'm alive again," Hermione replied. "But never mind that, how do _you_ feel? Ron told me everything."

Harry shrugged. "It's... strange. Not a bad strange, but strange. It's like I have an idea of everything that needs to be done to make the world stable, but I only know what to do when it comes to the little things." He was trying not to think about it all, mostly, because he had a feeling he'd get overwhelmed if he truly let his mind wander over everything that was unbalanced in the world. "I need to do something about Voldemort, though," he added thoughtfully. "Magic _hates_ him."

"That's one thing it's got right," Ron said, frowning a little.

"I wish it could've been me in your place," Hermione replied. "I feel so _useless_."

"Without you there'd still be a humongous snake running around," Ron said. "I think you're pretty useful."

"Agreed," Harry added.

"I want to say I'm sorry," Hermione said, "but I'm not. I'm so happy to be alive. It was awful, looking into the reflection of its terrible yellow eyes and thinking _I'm going to die here, aren't I?_ Because even if its eyes didn't kill me, it could've swallowed me whole." She shivered. "I'm glad it's dead."

"You can make it up to me by helping me figure it all out?" Harry tried, and groaned when Hermione's eyes began to glint with curiosity.

"I could do so much research. I've never even heard of this."

"Either way, we'll deal with it together," Ron said.

And to Harry, that didn't sound too bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
